The Conclusion Pub
by RavenWriter89
Summary: Now and then, everybody needs to get away and have a drink with their mates, right? See the world through The Barman's eyes as his unusual customers continuely cause problems.


It was a typical day at The Conclusion Pub, nicknamed The End. Busy, but not so busy that The Barman couldn't handle it. _Quite a variety in here today,_ he thought. There were people, and things he could only assume were people, from all over, from all genres and eras. Some were so new that they sparkled brightly and crinkled like plastic when they walked. Others had blurred so bad you could barely see their faces.

Take the man at the bar now. At first glance he looked like he was covered in dust, making his edges hazy. He was slumped over the bar, an empty shot glass clutched in his hand. He looked rough.

"Will that be everything?" asked The Barman. All that he got in return was a vague mumbling. He thought he caught the words 'Ishmael' and 'whale.' He left him alone after that.

He idly cleaned a glass while keeping an eye on the trio in the corner. They had the nervous air of people who aren't sure if they're supposed to be there. It happened a lot with the crossovers, not certain if they can still come in here. The Barman looked them over. Two guys and a girl, teenagers, all dressed in black robes. Odd, but not really out-of-place. With such a clientele as he had, there couldn't really be a dress code. He thought the red-headed one was the shiftiest, looking around with a sullen expression. The other dark-haired boy seemed too serious for his tender years, and the girl in the middle appeared to be the referee between them. He drifted closer to listen to their whispers.

"I told you we should have stayed at Hogsmeade. This place is filled with weirdoes," said the red head. A little harsh, considering he was fiddling with a piece of wood and had bits of parchment sticking out of his pockets. Not to mention the owl on his shoulder.

"Ron, will you stop complaining? Do you want us to get thrown out?" asked the girl. She noticed The Barman and lowered her voice further. "Besides, this is as safe a place as any in the present situation."

"Yeah, because your last idea for a secret meeting place worked out _soo_ well," the dark-haired boy said dryly.

She glared at him. "At least I'm trying to help instead of moping around all the time," she replied harshly. The Barman wandered away as the conversation disintegrated into a squabble. He knew they wouldn't cause trouble.

"Pardon me?" said a small voice. The Barman couldn't see who it belonged to until he leaned over the bar. Standing there were four very short people, with bare feet and cloaks. They were soaking wet, leaving puddles on the floor. The wide-eyed one at the front had spoken.

"What can I do for you?" The Barman asked. Nothing really surprised him these days. Back when he first started, he would have laughed at the sight of such strange people. But he had seen so many of these 'weirdoes' that they didn't affect him anymore.

"We're looking for Gandalf. Have you seen him?" The Barman never paid much attention to names, but he knew that this Gandalf probably wasn't here. This wasn't the place to continue your story. You went outside to do that.

"Lads," he said in the tone of one imparting bad news, "I think you've come to the wrong place to look for your friend. Might I suggest down the road?"

"But you must have seen him! Tall, grey, has a beard and a staff…"

"Lad, you just described half of my patrons," he said gently. "Maybe you should go back outside, take a walk, clear your head. It'll work wonders, trust me."

He watched as the little group shuffled towards the door. The one at the end looked forlornly back at the long row of bottles behind the bar before turning to the door. "Never even stayed for a sample," he muttered before leaving.

The Barman had never read a book in his life. Well, that wasn't quite true; he tried to read one once. But to someone who is outside of any story, it is very hard to understand the story of another person. It's really boring. The only parts he liked weren't really parts at all. It was when the story line skipped ahead to a future time, leaving unexplained and probably tedious bits behind. The Barman knew that in the gaps in-between was when customers were most likely to arrive.

When most people walked in, they realized they were somewhere other than the place they were supposed to be. These people usually settled in for a drink or a chat, glad for the escape, and then returned to wherever they came from. No problem. Then there are the ones who wander in thinking that they're still in their story. They're the troublemakers. Very reluctant to leave sometimes.

Then there were the crossovers. Stories that had been made into so-called 'motion pictures.' The pure ones went down the road to The Rolling Credits. But the crossovers had to be careful. If they stepped into the wrong pub in the wrong form, they would be refused service and shunned. Rarely was that mistake made twice.

He looked around the bar again. Full, but quiet. He had learned to recognize the different races that came in. Some, like the dwarves, seemed pretty consistent from tale to tale. Some were more ambiguous. The elves, for instance. There were the tall, graceful, ethereal creatures of ageless beauty on one side of the room, and the tiny, bright, chaotic creatures of pleasure on the other side, and everything else in-between. The Barman occasionally worried some sort of territory war would break out.

While most people came here accidentally, there were a few regulars. He enjoyed talking to them because they never minded sharing their stories. One of them was seated at the bar now, nursing a glass of scotch.

"Can I top you up?"

NO, THANK YOU.

"Do you want a bag of nuts or anything? You're looking mighty thin," joked The Barman.

The figure looked at him. A black robed skeleton with a large scythe leaning against the bar looking intently at you could give anyone else a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. Its expression never changed, but The Barman got the impression that the figure was confused.

SHOULD I NOT BE? it inquired.

"Never mind," said the Barman. He forgot that this particular customer had no sense of humour whatsoever. He tried to remember his name. Dean or something.

One of the other patrons came up to the bar for a refill. He was a tall, thin man, dressed in black, and had the disposition of a spider. He liked to let people walk themselves into traps. So much more precise. He noticed the other figure standing there almost immediately, but his only reaction was an insignificant tensing of the muscles in his chest. He calmly ordered the drink, and did his best to ignore the scythe.

In contrast, the robed figure never took its gaze from the man. HAVELOCK, it said. Its tone was of one professional greeting another..

The man, finally having to acknowledge the figure, said nothing, but inclined his head very slightly towards it.

The figure reached into its robe and pulled out what looked like an hourglass. It was black with fine iron filigree on the top and bottom. The man watched it intently.

The figure also watched the sand spilling into the bottom half. NO NEED TO WORRY YET, it said, replacing the timer in its robe. The man got his glass and went back to his table without a word, looking rather paler than usual.

The Barman had seen the whole incident. He knew the two characters were from the same story, which can cause some embarrassment to the involved parties, but great entertainment to the observers.

Suddenly, a man and a woman came bursting through the door. They were both frantic and looked like they had been running a great distance.

"Jesus Christ had children! The Holy Grail is really his descendents! Holy blood, Holy Grail! Mary Magdalene was really royalty! Can't you see!" he cried.

The pub was dead quiet. All eyes were fixed on the pair. From the back corner came a muttered, "What did I tell you? Weirdoes."

"Do you want something?" asked The Barman icily. He did not like it when people disturbed his customers.

"Only the truth!" he cried one last time before running out the doors again, the woman trailing behind.

"Amateurs," other person grumbled.

Not long after, another pair walked in. The Barman watched to make sure they weren't going to make a commotion like the other pair did. But they seemed alright. The first one didn't blink as often as he should have, and the second man was dressed in a bathrobe with a towel around his neck.

The second man glanced around anxiously. "This doesn't look like the right place, Ford. I mean, we've been in some strange places before, but this…"

"This place sells drinks. Looks okay to me," replied his friend. He ordered a round and dragged his friend to a table.

The Barman once again inspected his pub. Crowds were constant, people forever coming and going. He had served them all, from tiny women no bigger than your thumb, to talking pigs, to dragons so large it didn't seem they should be able to fit through the door. Spies, criminals, kings, peasants, captains, children, ancients, gardeners, lawyers, explorers, warriors. All kinds of people and animals had walked, flown, slithered, or otherwise propelled themselves through that door.

The Barman felt a moment of pride. It didn't matter who or what he served, he always managed to find the right drink for them. Some were decidedly harder than others. Take that mismatched group in the booth. A girl, a dog, a scarecrow, a lion, and some sort of robot. Who else but The Barman could have served them all without a mental breakdown?

Thankfully the rest of the day went smoothly. The End didn't ever really close; you never knew when someone would pop by; but there were gaps in the crowds. It was during one of these gaps when one of the more outlandish characters walked in. The Barman was sweeping and had time to take in this ostentatious person. Human, check. Clad in sashes, belts, beads, and braids, okay. Sword and pistol at his side, fine. Nothing unusual so far.

He surveyed the room with kohl-rimmed eyes for a few moments. He strode straight to bar, sat down with absolute confidence, and asked loudly for rum. As The Barman strolled over he noticed something wrong with this man. He was too…shiny. He seemed more real than the bar around him, like he was a lighthouse in a fog. The Barman realized that this person was not from a book; he was from one of those 'films.'

"I'm sorry sir, but if you want a drink, you'll have to go down the road a bit to The Rolling Credits. They'll serve you," The Barman patiently explained.

"Wot?" the man asked, astonished. "Do you know who I am? I'm Captain Ja-"

"That's all very nice, sir. But I can't serve you. You don't belong here."

"This is occupational discrimination, this is. Just because I'm a bloody pi-"

"Sir, this has nothing to do with your occupation, whatever it may be. It's just that you don't fit here."

When the man continued to rant, The Barman signaled for the bouncers to come out. Chips and Pex, they called themselves. Not that it mattered. They could still drag the raving man outside.

_Never a dull moment in here,_ he thought, picking up his broom.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

_Do you want to be part of The Conclusion Pub? Do you know of a book character that deserves a break and a drink? If so, please contact the management with your request. We will get back to as soon as we can. In the meantime, why don't you help yourself to some nuts?_


End file.
